


Your Love is Sunlight

by thatSillagetho



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternating POV from Crowley and Aziraphale and God, Asexual Relationship, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Good Omens Lore, Good Omens References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lore - Freeform, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Some History, a stroll through Crowley's timeline, god says it's canon fuck off, two gays realizing they love each other, two idiot gays, very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatSillagetho/pseuds/thatSillagetho
Summary: A wandering through Crowley's pre-Eden to post-Apocalypse-that-wasn't.





	Your Love is Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> To Willow, for actually motivating me to write something :3 
> 
> Shoutout to @willshebemina on tumblr for writing a wonderful Crowley-is-Raphael analysis that I used for this.

Crowley didn’t Fall. [1] Falling implies a lack of control. While Hell was, well Hell he _chose_ this. If given the chance, he would choose Hell again. He would do so, spitting questions, screaming at the Almighty ‘why?’. He would do so and fall into the same depression and anger and pit of despair.

He wouldn’t stay in Heaven. Not when they called him ‘healer’ then commanded he watch children drown, watch as sons murdered fathers, watch as his brothers and sisters punish the sinners. If he stayed in Heaven, he’d lose a part of himself. If he Fell to Hell, he’d lose a part of himself. The difference lay in the method, slowly removing a bandage vs ripping it off quick. So, he sauntered vaguely downward while the angels condemned him for choosing humanity.

His grace ripped from him the moment he turned his back, he crawled out of that pool of boiling sulfur like the rest of the Fallen Angels. He kept his head down and worked. He didn’t need the attention of an Archangel-who-Fell. He didn’t want to rise through the ranks of Hell. Despite this he was sent to the surface, to achieve the first tempting. He was not the first, not even the second or third sent. Expendable, unforgivable, that’s what he was now.

Therefore, when he slithered onto the wall of Eden to meet the angel whose flaming sword was nowhere in sight, he was expecting to be cut down. He was expecting to find a pompous, stick-up-their-ass angel. Not Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who gave away his flaming sword to the humans because “she was _expecting_ ”. Who loved them as much as Crawly used too, when he was Raphael. This angel who loved the humans even when it Fell Crawly. He wasn’t expecting to like the angel, and he certainly didn’t expect Hell to permanently assign him on Earth, to better tempt them.

And so began Crowley’s[2] long term affair with humanity, and the angel Aziraphale. 

* * *

When Crowley ran into Aziraphale in Mesopotamia, he was really looking for the forty-foot-long wooden boat that was being built. He teased the angel, watching as he grew uncomfortable when he told the demon that the Almighty was going to drown them all. Crowley was thrown down because he asked questions, because he questioned Her. She was going to drown kids. Since when did Heaven have the right to murder needlessly? That’s the sort of thing he expected Hell was going to do. Even so, Hell only gave a temptation, the humans exercised free will and the Almighty was the one who sent them to Heaven or Hell. She was the one who sent them to suffer.

He found Aziraphale at the crucifixion of Jesus in the Roman Empire. Bitterness welled up within Crowley, who had for a time, managed to get on with the job. He Fell so that he wouldn’t have to stand by and watch. Yet here he was, standing by and watching as Her son suffered and died in agony. He died with nails embedded in his wrists and feet, trying to lift himself by his wounds so that he could breathe. He had whimpered with every pound of the hammer. The sound haunted Crowley. The angel was just like all the others. Unwilling to disobey, even when it meant the unnecessary suffering of Her creations.

Crowley stalked off, to find a guard to tempt into easing his passing. After that, he promptly retreated to the other side of the world and drank himself into a stupor. Aziraphale found him back in Rome only decades later, and ‘tempted’ him to lunch. Such a simple, human thing, going out for lunch. Neither of them needed to eat of course, but Aziraphale enjoyed it and so Crowley found himself in the company of the angel until into that evening. Crowley caught himself grinning behind his glasses, fondly gazing at the angel who had decidedly lifted his spirits. _No,_ he decided, _Aziraphale was not like the other angels._

Nearly two thousand years later Crowley, who had received a commendation for the French Revolution, decided he needed to travel to France to see what he had received the commendation for. He had watched the drop of the guillotine with distance ambivalence until he overheard talk of an English aristocrat who was supposed to be put to death today. Crowley had moved to see who the poor bastard was when he caught sight of Aziraphale. Terror coursed through his veins, and he appeared in the cell within a moment. Within another he stopped time.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that,” he found himself saying. Forcing himself to look as casual as possible, as if he hadn’t just used a substantial portion of his power in the processes of – no. Whatever this was it was _not_ a rescue. Just, helping a friend out. Yes. That was it. The conversation continued, a polite bantering between old friends when he snapped his fingers. The chains fell away. They went to lunch, crêpes. Crowley realized he liked Aziraphale. Perhaps more than as a friend. Except, surely Aziraphale wouldn’t feel the same? He’s said it a million times, they were an angel and a demon, they shouldn’t be friends, not even tentative allies.

Yet, when push came to shove, Crowley didn’t want to live without him. Crowley couldn’t live on this earth without Aziraphale. And that was an issue to deal with another day, Crowley decided back in the safety of his London apartment. He needed a drink, and a long nap. He fell asleep soon thereafter for nearly a century.[3]

In 1967 Crowley found himself sitting in his Bentley staring at Aziraphale. His angel, who gave him holy water wrapped in a tartan thermos. The design painfully reminding him of the angel. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_ echoing in the car. Aziraphale’s soft refusal at odds with the holy water he held in his hands. He secured the thermos and drove away slower than usual. He watched Aziraphale in the review mirror, with a neon sign over him that almost looked like a flickering halo. Maybe the angel felt the same about him. 

* * *

It wasn’t a surprise then, when Satan was climbing to the surface of the Earth, when all hope seemed lost, Crowley looked to his angel. The one who had given him a chance that day on the walls of Eden. The one who surprised him again and again, and the one who Crowley couldn’t live without. Crowley the Fallen-Archangel had power but what could he do against the Morningstar? They were fucked. 

Aziraphale was lost. Crowley had always been able to do something, had always been able to save Aziraphale, but now his love was just kneeling on the ground looking at him. To him. He wouldn’t lose him now, now that he had finally realized that Heaven was no better than Hell. Not when he had come all this way. Not when they finally had a chance at happiness. He grasped his flaming sword, the weight unfamiliar and clumsy in his grasp.

“Come up with something or,” the vigor he started with trails off, unsure of what threat he could possibly have against Crowley. Crowley, who had come to his aid repeatedly, who always sought out Aziraphale throughout the ages. Who he invited to dine at the Ritz and have drinks in the back of the bookshop. Who he spent eleven years with raising Warlock. “Or I’ll never talk to you again.” The words fell in a tumble, desperate, fearful and raw.

Crowley’s eyes latched onto Aziraphale as something surged within him. He gathered his strength. His full power which he had locked away for millennia. He threw himself into the air, away from the Earth that was threatening to pull him down to Hell. He stopped time. He carved a bubble of time, just a few seconds where Satan himself couldn’t touch Aziraphale and Adam. It was up to Adam now, this was all he could do, Crowley's cards were on the table. When he felt his powers wane, he restarted time and watched as the Antichrist sent Satan back to hell and reset the universe.

* * *

“You don’t have a side anymore, neither of us do.” Crowley softly reminded Aziraphale on the park bench outside of Tadfield. He lounged, trying to hide how tired he was from driving through the burning ring of the M25 and then stopping time for the Devil. Aziraphale just met his eyes, uncertain and pointed out the bus heading for them. As they rode the bus back to London, Crowley claimed the window seat and Aziraphale sat next to him. After a moment, Aziraphale’s hand rested on his own. The weight so sleight Crowley had to check if it remained for the rest of the journey. [4]

After the swap, while Crowley’s body tingled with the remnants of his righteous anger, they went and dined at the Ritz. _To the world,_ they toasted. Aziraphale engaged in conversation and leaned towards Crowley as they debated age-old semantics. Their hands brushed together through lunch and to the walk back to the bookshop. No more hiding, no Heaven or Hell to look out for over their shoulders. They were free. Crowley was happy.

They went back to the A.Z Fell & Co. Bookshop in Soho, just to make sure they weren’t being followed. It wasn’t anything more Crowley told himself. This was their normal routine, and it wasn’t like Aziraphale gave indication of anything differently, right? Together, they went through two bottles of Aziraphale’s special stash before conversation fell to an end. Crowley stood to leave, as per their routine. Aziraphale stood with him, rising from his favorite chair. Crowley motioned to his angel a goodbye and made for the door.

“Crowley, stay, please. I mean- it’s late, and we don’t know if our ruse worked and-” the angel paused mid-breath as Crowley turned, only a handful of inches between them. His shades long since tucked into his jacket he met Aziraphale’s eyes carefully, steady as they’ve always been. Aziraphale took a breath, as if to fill the silence before “Oh, to Hell with it,” Crowley’s half-closed eyes flew open as Aziraphale grabbed his jacket and pulled him into a kiss.

Crowley froze, it took a handful of moments to realize that _Aziraphale was kissing him_. A few more to remember his own name. A few more after that to realize he wanted to kiss the angel back. By this time Aziraphale pulled away, tears welling in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh-ah, I really have – I must go.” He turned to flee to the back of his bookshop when Crowley started after him. He appeared in front of Aziraphale, his hand resting on the angel’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the cheekbone. He leaned down, so close their foreheads touched and hesitated.

“We’re on our side?” His voice cracked, aching for confirmation.

“Our side,” his angel breathed. Crowley paused for one moment, then gently closed the distance between them and kissed his angel. Aziraphale reciprocated, his hands going to Crowley’s lapels and pulling him closer. After seeing Heaven actively work to bring about the end of the world, after seeing Hell – after almost losing Crowley. He deserved this.

Crowley leaned in further, fearing that this were all a dream and he would wake up in his flat, alone. When they finally broke apart, and he opened his eyes, he saw Aziraphale there. His beautiful blue eyes shining up at Crowley with such hope, and a smile so bright Crowley almost forgot what he was doing. The demon responded in kind, one hand lingering against the angel’s cheek and the other resting on the angel’s jacket. He gazed at his angel, taking in every detail before leaning down to kiss him again. A kiss of victory, of relief and of six thousand years of held back love.

* * *

Several days later, when Crowley stood at the back of the bookshop, watching Aziraphale hum to himself and reorganize the bookshop, [5] he found himself at peace. _This,_ he thought, _was something he could get used too._ He still had his own place, of course, but something was changing. Not a bad change, but a long-awaited change.

Aziraphale found himself reading on the lumpy couch, with Crowley sprawled on the other end, his legs crossing the angel’s lap. The serpent of Eden was napping in the late afternoon sun that spilled over the den. Aziraphale slyly glanced over, the light turned his hair so that it seemed to burn like fire, the shadows playing on the sharp curves of his face and eyelashes. He thought he could live in this moment forever.

Crowley moved in slowly. Soon after that first night The Velvet Underground and Queen cassettes began floating around the angel’s bookshop. _I’ll be Your Mirror_ played in the background whenever Crowley was relaxing with Aziraphale. A small plate by the kitchen appeared for the Bentley keys whenever Crowley visited, and occasionally spent the night.

Aziraphale, as a rule, didn’t sleep. Evil doesn’t sleep, so why should he? He didn’t care to reexamine this line of behavior until Crowley asks if he’s coming to bed one night. The demon appeared in the door frame, leaning against it in his simple silk night clothes and feigned disinterest. Aziraphale, who had been engrossed in a newly acquired “Wicked Bible” he had just acquired simply blinked before realizing Crowley was waiting for an answer.

“Oh! I had lost track of time, of course my dear. That is, if you’d like?” The demon, who was at this point in the night pleasantly buzzed simply nodded and disappeared. Aziraphale waited several moments before placing a bookmark on the right page and following him up the stairs. He crawled into bed next to Crowley and paused, not sure what to do. Crowley moved closer to Aziraphale, until they were spooning and fell asleep within moments. Aziraphale followed suit and closed his eyes, hoping something would happen as he fell into darkness. When Aziraphale woke the following morning, watching a sleepy Crowley wake up next to him, he suddenly understood the appeal of sleeping. Especially, he reflected, if the bed was shared with Crowley.

One notable afternoon, when Crowley appeared for their evening dinner, he spotted a sansevieria plant placed carefully in the corner of the bookshop.

“Crowley! Almost ready to go, my dear just a few more things,” Aziraphale greeted him with a kiss. Crowley allowed himself to be distracted before pulling away from his angel.

“A snake plant, really?” he teased. Aziraphale blushed.

“I thought it would make you feel more at home,” the angel admits, smiling slyly. Crowley pauses, unable to hide a grin behind his glasses and followed the angel back into the living space. He watched Aziraphale wander around, looking for his favorite jacket to wear to dinner that night.

“Thanks, angel.”

Over the next few months, the snake plant is joined by an aloe plant, a peace lily, and a cast-iron, among others. After all, there was no point in Crowley keeping all his plants in his apartment when he spent most of his time in the bookshop anyway. Time he spent spontaneously reorganizing the books on the shelf and napping in one of the forgotten chairs hidden among stacks of manuscripts.[6]

Somewhere among the stars, She watches them both. The Archangel-that-Fell and the Principality that he loves. She hoped that he would find the angel that would welcome him home. She smiles and guides the stars that Fell with Crowley to their new home around the Alpha Centauri constellation, where they would fall into orbit until Kingdom comes.

* * *

[1] Strictly speaking, he was known as Raphael then, but Raphael died the moment She condemned him for refusing to stay in line.

[2] Crawly, he decided, just wasn’t _him._

[3] He woke briefly in 1862 when Hell payed him a visit in his London apartment, wondering why he hadn’t performed any temptations in the last 60 years. This prompted the Holy Water request, and trip to St. James’s Park that went down like a lead balloon. Crowley stalked away from the Park, from his denied request and drank so much he nearly discorporated. Then, he fell asleep for another 40 years, hoping his heart would hurt a little less when he woke up. It almost worked.

[4] It did.

[5] Aziraphale was known to do this as often as possible, to discourage any repeat customers from becoming any more familiar with his shop.

[6] Crowley thought he was being incredibly sneaky with his rearranging of the books. Truth be told, Aziraphale realized the first time he did so, he just thought it helped scare off any customers, so he didn’t particularly mind.


End file.
